


5 Times Peter Wrapped Something With His Webs

by jessicagoddamnjones



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Christmas Fluff, Christmas fic, Fluff, Gen, Irondad, Peter Parker Acts Like a Spider, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Has A Heart, no beta we die like men, peter’s being a nerd again, spiderson, unprepared and useless
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-22 17:01:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17063600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jessicagoddamnjones/pseuds/jessicagoddamnjones
Summary: + 1 time he didn’t.





	1. Furniture

**1.** **furniture**

“Maybe we should call those guys from that one show— _Hoarders_ , right?—and just have them come over and interview us. We’d make so much money.” Peter gave his Aunt May pleading eyes from where he sat in his island of bubble wrap and loose newspaper pages. 

She snorted and continued to wrap up a vase. Just enough so it wouldn’t break during the transportation, but not enough that it wouldn’t be visible once there. “Doubtful. I bet they get hundreds of submissions. Besides, this isn’t junk, this is treasure!”

”You’re literally sitting on an empty milk carton. Since when were _milk cartons_ even a thing again?”

May shrugged. “Since hipsters came into style, I guess. Get up, you need to help wrap stuff.”

Peter groaned and face planted in bubble wrap. When he spoke, it was barely discernible; “Why do we even have to sell all this anyways?”

”We have too much stuff, Pete. Last night I counted eight lamps. Why do we have eight lamps?” May kicked him gently in the ribs as she passed him by. “The flea market is the perfect opportunity to clear out our apartment.”

He sighed heavily and rolled over, bubbles popping underneath him. “I’ll do it,” he acquiesced, “But I’m gonna be a huge bitch about it.”

May’s laughter trailed after her into the kitchen. “I wouldn’t expect anything less from you, Peter.”

Ten minutes later found Peter criss-cross on the floor wearing bubble wrap like a cape and balancing battered silverware on his nose. “Why would anyone wanna buy our old forks?”

She shrugged from where she was sitting on the table. “Some people go nuts for that kind of stuff, I dunno.”

”What are we gonna do with everything we don’t sell?”

”Donate it, maybe. Regift it. Know anyone interested in old Christmas stockings?”

”Negative.” Peter cursed as the utensils slid down his face. He bundled them all up and put them in the box closest to him. “We’re out of newspapers, by the way.”

”Use the bubble wrap,” she suggested without looking up. 

“Out of bubble wrap.”

Now May looked up. ”What? I just saw some, how did we run out?”

”I used the last of it to make this cool cape.” He twisted around to show her. It did look cool, but going by the look on May’s face, she probably didn’t like it as much as Peter did. 

“We still have shit to wrap,” she pointed out. “Including that big ass chair. How are we supposed to do this?”

Peter shrugged and slouched against the wall. “We push it down the stairs and hope for the best.”

”Nobody’s going to buy a chair that’s been pushed down the stairs.”

”Oh, but they’ll buy used silverware?”

”People are weird, Peter, but they are people. Uh, okay, let’s load up what we have and then we can see if Stacy from upstairs has anything she can spare. Come on, off your butt.”

She didn’t wait for him to get up before climbing off the table and stepping over him, going to get her shoes on. He still wasn’t up when she stepped back over him and headed towards the door; only stopping to pick up a cardboard box along the way.

“You go ahead, May, I’ll catch up. I gotta do something first.”

”You just want to get out of doing work,” she playfully accused. Nevertheless, she still went on, the door shutting behind her.

Peter stared at the chair in question. It truly was a monster; it smelled suspicious, had stuffing leaking out of the sides, and was stained in multiple places where no one could remember spilling anything. They would have to pad the corners and sharp edges, else it could damage the other boxes in the back of the truck they were borrowing from one of May’s coworkers. 

Maybe his plan was stupid. Maybe it was utterly ridiculous. But that had never stopped Peter before, and he wasn’t going to let it start now. 

He jumped to his feet and tugged his cape off, abandoning it on the floor as he walked into his bedroom. In his dresser, he kept old Spider-Man gear from before he had the new suit. Part of that gear was his web shooters, which he had to attach manually because they weren’t built into his original suit. He put them on now, testing the buttons and wraps to make sure they still worked properly. Peter always kept them stocked with web fluid, too, just in case something happened. 

He never imagined that something being a boxing emergency, but hey, _c’est la vie_. 

Once in the living room again, Peter couldn’t help but notice how large the seat on the chair was. If he was careful enough, he could probably stack several boxes on top of it and kill two birds with one stone. 

Grinning madly at his new plan, Peter grabbed the box with books in it and placed it on the chair, to be quickly followed up with a box of old clothes, a box of Tupperware, and finally, a box of coffee mugs. 

He made sure they were properly balanced, then attached a web to the head of the chair. Peter carefully stretched it down over the boxes and attached the end to the bottom of the chair. He did this a couple of times, from various angles, until he was positive they were all secure. 

After that, he began webbing the corners of the chair. However, the teen had barely started before May was walking back inside, already on a path for the pile of boxes on the couch. She froze when she saw Peter’s masterpiece. “Darling,” she began, “What the hell are you doing?”

He grinned. “I realized that my webs are the perfect cushion! They’ll dissolve in time for us to get everything to the flea market, and we don’t have to go ask Stacy for anything.”

She blinked at him for ten whole seconds. “But aren’t you worried that someone will see the webbing and make the connection between you and the _other guy?_ ”

“Nah, not really,” Peter answered. “It’s New York. Nobody notices anything unless it involves them.”

”You’re right about that,” she sighed. To be completely honest, she didn’t look like she cared all that much. In fact, she looked rather amused at Peter’s line of thought. “Just don’t start wearing your Spidey suit to school, and we should be fine.”

Her permission made Peter grin and continue  gingerly covering the sharp edges. That is, until she added from behind him, 

“And since you’re so invested in this whole thing, you can even finish wrapping and carrying the rest of the stuff to the truck!”

_Ah, shit._

Maybe Peter could call in that favor Clint Barton owed him for telling Natasha that he wasn’t the one who ate her ice cream. Yeah, that would work. 

“Hey, May, have you seen my phone?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> You can subscribe to this series to get notifications when I update it, which should hopefully be every day until Christmas, but stuff might come up. 
> 
> Comment, let me know what you think!


	2. Wound

**2\. wound**

Getting stabbed and shot _sucked_. 

Luckily, Mr. Stark knew this, and designed Peter’s newest version of his Spidey suit to be as bulletproof as possible without restricting his movement. 

This did not do much when it came to explosions. 

Oh, _sure_ , he could take an entire round to the chest and barely feel a thing, but one itty-bitty bomb went off and it was like the onsie all over again. 

And as Peter sat on a rooftop, digging shrapnel out of his chest, he seriously considered filing a complaint. 

The bomb had managed to deactivate Karen and shut down most of the suit’s functions, which meant that he had no way of contacting Mr. Stark even if he wanted to. 

And he didn’t want to. 

On the bright side, he got all the civilians out of the laundromat before the bomb went off. No causualities. 

Not unless you counted Karen. 

“Stupid criminals with their stupid crime . . . can’t just live theirs lives normally, like the rest of us?” Peter cursed and extruded a particularly nasty looking piece of metal from his skin and dropped it onto the pile beside him. 

His spilled blood found a home in a puddle around his body. The night chill congealed it into an almost jello-like substance. The moonlight glinted off it, painting a sight that _might_ have been beautiful and deep, had Peter literally not thought he was bleeding to death. 

He had nothing to wrap the wound. He had no way to get home, because the mask had been too burned to work correctly, so he couldn’t see out of it anymore. All he had was his webs, a pile of shrapnel pulled from his bleeding body, and a slow-setting chill weeping from his bones. 

His bloodied fingers pulled out another chunk of metal. 

I could die on this roof, he thought. This could literally be my end. God, that sucks. 

At least Peter would die listening to his favorite sounds: cars honking. The rumble of engines. Pedestrians walking, yelling. The sounds of the only home he had ever known. 

_Hey, wait a second._

Peter looked at his wrists, then at his wound, then at his wrists again. His web shooters were still working. Even if they didn’t work as much as they used to, they still _worked_. 

“God, Mr. Stark is going to kill me,” he whispered. 

The next thing he knew, he was carefully aiming at his bleeding gut, drawing his bottom lip between his teeth, and shooting. 

_OWOWOWOWOWFUCK_

“That wasn’t too bad.” Peter sniffed heartily and did it again. 

_JESUSCHRISTFUCKDAMNSHIT_

”Just one more, Peter, you got this.” Tears were a path of lava down his cheeks. 

When the wound was properly closed and covered by his webbing, Peter pushed himself to his feet. The roof bucked and swayed underneath his feet, but he stayed upright. 

Panting for breath, Peter muttered, “Oh, my god, that sucked.”

He stumbled to edge of the roof and braced himself with one hand. The alleyway separating the two buildings was completely deserted. If he could get down there without breaking an ankle, he could hail a cab . . . 

What was he thinking? His mask was ruined. He had no money. He could barely walk without barfing. 

Letting out a whimper, Peter sunk to his knees and pressed his forehead against the cool brick. “Shit,” he whispered. “Shit. Fuck. Shit.”

Every second that passed only increased the pain in his gut. Peter knew he needed to get medical attention right away, but he had no way to get it. His web shooters were almost out of business. The suit was practically glued to his skin with dried blood. 

What did he have? A pile of shrapnel, a deathly injury, and a useless spandex suit. 

Joy, oh joy. 

Peter rolled onto his back and stared at the starless sky. Clouds drifted by like shreds of cotton candy caught in the wind. The night breeze kissed his sweaty skin. If he focused on the surrounded elements enough, he could almost forget the pain. 

It was almost comfortable. 

The breeze was cold, but not freezing. And when you had been digging bits of metal out of your gut for the last half hour, even a gravel roof could feel comfortable. 

He turned over the little pebbles in his hands, tasting the sweet tinge of New York pollution on his sensory-heightened tongue. It wasn’t a bad place to fall asleep. He had slept in stranger places, including a tree once. 

It was almost like falling asleep in his own bed. 

* * *

 

He was woken up by rough hands shaking him roughly on a rough surface. 

“Stop it,” he complained, lazily waving away the hands. “Gotta sleep.”

”Peter, if you don’t open your fucking eyes, I’m going to drop you off this roof.”

Peter opened his fucking eyes. Above him was Mr. Stark, Iron Man suit on but with the mask retracted. “I’ve been looking for you for almost three _hours_ ,” he said. “What the hell, Parker?”

Peter shrugged. He sighed deeply and wondered if he would be allowed to go to sleep soon. “There was a bomb. Went boom. Suit got trashed. Lucky-ducky me.”

”You fuckin’ idiot.” Tony easily hooked his hands under Peter’s armpits and propped him up against the railing of the roof. “Were you here all night?”

”Mmm-hmm.”

A sigh so deep it ruffled the hair on Peter’s forehead. “You aren’t hurt, are you? I mean, you aren’t dead, so—hold the phone.”

 _I think I know what’s coming. God, spare me_. 

“Is this your _webbing?_ Did you actually, literally use _synthetic spider webs_ to hold together a hole in your stomach?” Mr. Stark’s hands ghosted over the injury. Now that he was talking about it, it started to hurt again. 

“Kinda. Didn’t have anything else to do. There’s some metal over there—“ without looking, Peter gestured at the pile of shrapnel, “—I wanna put it on a necklace.”

”Are you trying to kill me? I have heart conditions. You _know_ I have heart conditions. What’s the dealio, Peter?”

Peter opened his eyes grumpily. Tony was carefully examining the sloppy bandage—it was started to dissolve sometime during the night, so it was almost like jello, or barely dried glue. “The dealio,” he answered, “is that I’m a goddamn innovator.”

”You’re a goddamn idiot.”

”People can be two things.”

”Sure they can, but in most people’s cases it doesn’t end up with them dying on a roof.” Tony rubbed his scruff and leaned forward suddenly, scooping Peter into his arms as easily as if he was a newborn. “Your Aunt May is furious, by the way, she thought I had you at my place. I think she actually aged ten years in two seconds when I told her you weren’t with me.”

”Now she’s thirty two,” whispered Peter deliriously. 

He felt Tony’s chest rumble with his laugh. “How hold do you think May is?”

”Young enough to get free drinks. Old enough to be surprised by that.”

Tony’s laughed cracked the sky open and showered Peter in a warm glow. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I watched Venom today and can now add “monster-fucker” onto the list of reasons my mom hates me
> 
> Anyways, let me know what you think by commenting, please, and I hope you enjoyed reading!


	3. Hands

**3\. hands**

It wasn’t often Peter was invited to spar with Natasha Romanoff herself. 

It wasn’t _ever_ , in fact. 

Mr. Stark was really cautious about how he interacted with the Rogue Avengers, and by cautious, he meant that he tries to avoid them and Peter interacting at all times. 

Ever since they moved back into the compound, Peter saw them a lot more. Mainly just passing them in the hallways, actually. He didn’t go on a lot of missions with them. And by that, he meant that he had never gone on a mission with them.

Peter didn’t know how much Mr. Stark had told them about him, but he was _pretty_ sure they knew he was Spider-Man. 

It would be weird if they thought he was something else, right?

He couldn’t imagine what else they would think him. 

So when Peter was in the compound’s kitchen during one of his weekends with Mr. Stark and Natasha Romanoff walked in, wearing workout gear, he was understandably thrown. Thrown enough to drop the plate he was washing in the sink, which was pretty much the loudest sound in the world. 

Instead of politely ignoring him—which had been the extent of their interactions so far—she said, “There’s a dishwasher for a reason.”

Red burned his neck. She had never spoken to him before, merely nodded. “I—I know. Yeah. I, um, I just like to do it myself. I like to use my hands. For stuff.” He sort of curled into himself, avoiding eye contact. 

“What does Tony have you doing up here?”

Peter shifted his weight, unsure of what he was allowed to tell her. “I’m an intern? I do . . . intern things.”

 _Real smooth, Parker._  

“What kind of intern things?” Natasha moved closer, leaning against the island in the middle of the kitchen.

“Uh,” he scratched the back of his head. “Basically whatever he tells me to do, I guess.” 

She nodded slowly, eyes piercing. “Follow me,” she ordered out of nowhere. 

“What? Why? Where? I don’t think I’m supposed to do that without Mr. Starkm’s permission. . . .”

”You do everything he tells you to?” Natasha raised an eyebrow at him. 

Peter nodded. “Pretty much, yeah.”

”Well, Tony isn’t here right now. Follow me, we’re going to the gym. I’m going to show you how to fight,  _rebenok pauk_.”

He followed her blindly, a bit scared to say no. “Uh, what does that mean? Rebe . . . knock . . . pack?”

” _Rebenok pauk_ ,” she repeated, a smile ghosting her lips. “It means baby spider.”

Peter tripped over his own feet, but used the wall to catch himself. “It—what—that doesn’t—you can’t—I mean, I don’t know why you would call me that, but okay.”

Natasha started walking backwards so she could face him. “I’ve know you were the Spider-Man since I first saw you here. Don’t play stupid. Your technique is sloppy, who taught you how to fight?”

”Yo—YouTube. Just a lotta YouTube.” Peter smiled half heartedly, blood rushing in his ears, hoping he gave off as many _please don’t kill me I’m an innocent teenager_ vibes as possible. 

“YouTube?” She raised an eyebrow at him and turned just in time to push open the gym doors. “You’ve never had an actual lesson?”

He shrugged. “I’ve gone to a couple kickboxing classes with my Aunt, and Mr. Stark gives me pointers here and there, but I’m still alive, so. . . . If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it, ya know?”

”It’s broke. It’s very, very, broke.” Without a backwards glance, she moved into the center of the sparring ring, knowing he would follow. “You have work-out clothes here?”

”Yeah. I mean, yes, ma’am. I have them in the locker room, I think.”

”Go put them on. If you ever call me ma’am again, I’ll put you in a chokehold.”

Peter nearly choked on his own tongue stumbling over his next sentence. “Yes ma—yes sir—yes, madam.”

Natasha squinted at him. Peter went silent. The whole _world_ went silent. 

“Did you just call me _madam?_ ” Her voice was slow, quiet, dangerous. 

Unable to speak, he nodded. 

Natasha let him stew in his own embarrassment and fear for a moment or two before half smiling and saying, “Cute. Go put on your clothes. We’re gonna start with basic punches.”

”I know how to _punch_ ,” he muttered sullenly under his breath. Nevertheless, he hurried into the locker room and pulled on his work-out clothes, which was basically just a loose shirt and sweatpants. 

How had he gone to washing dishes to _this?_

Peter waited a beat before walking out. He wanted to collect his breath. _Don’t say anything stupid, offensive, or childish. Don’t say anything stupid, offensive, or childish. Don’t say anything stu—_  

“Don’t you have better things to do than teach me how to punch?”

_Peter, you fucking idiot._

Luckily, Natasha just put her hands on her hips and shrugged. “Not really. Things have been slow even since we moved back in. And I’ve already pranked Clint today, and that was pretty much the only thing on the agenda. Where’s the tape?”

”Tape?” Peter was confused for a moment before he realized that she meant the tape that you wrap around your hands to spar. “Oh, uh, I dunno. I don’t spar a lot. Usually, it’s just wherever the last person who used it left it.”

“FRIDAY, who was the last person to use the boxing tape?”

” _Sam Wilson, but you should be warned that we’re all out. We’re getting a new shipment on Sunday._ ”

”Well, damn.” She frowned. “I guess I could teach you some kicks, but it’s easier if you practice upper body moves.”

Peter had experience with punching. He did not have experience with kicking. 

Peter did not want to get kicked by Natasha Romanoff. 

“Uh, you know what, that won’t be necessary.” Peter was already backing away. “I think I might have something that could work—yeah, I’ll just be right back.”

He jogged out of the gym to her confused protests. 

Down the hall, past the kitchen, up the stairs, down another hall, into the elevator, up three flights of stairs, down another hall and to the right was Peter’s bedroom, which he burst into panting heavily and promptly began tearing apart. 

Being Spider-Man meant he had a web for every occasion, with varying levels of stickiness, durability, resistance, and kinetic energy absorption. Which meant that he probably had a web fluid perfect for wrapping his hands up to spar with Natasha—if he was right, then it would be Web Fluid 3.7, which he specifically designed to be more like fabric than the others so he could tie up criminals without ripping their skin off with the original webbing. 

He grabbed the vial, put on his manual web shooters, loaded the vial into the web shooters, and ran out of his room. 

Down the hall, into the elevator, down three flights of stairs, down another hall, down the stairs, last the kitchen, and down the hall he ran back into the gym and skidded to a halt. 

“Just—gimme—two—seconds.” Peter bent over and braced his hands on his knees. “I’m good.”

”Where did you go?” Natasha hadn’t moved from her place in the ring, and instead watched Peter fight for breath with her hands on her hips. 

Sucking in a lungful of air, he straightened up. “My room. To get these.” He brandished his web shooters and walked into the ring, where he paused. “Do you need the tape, or do I?”

”You.” She was watching the devices with apt fascination—actually, it was more like hunger.

Peter made a mental note to give her her own pair of web shooters for her birthday.

”What are you doing with those?”

Peter began wrapping his knuckles on his left hand while answering, “I’m using them as tape. I have a bunch of different web fluids for different things, and I think this could work until the shipment comes in. It dissolves in about an hour or two, but I’m working on making it last longer.”

She nodded. “Smart. You make all the webs yourself?”

”Used to.” He began to wrap his right hand. “I actually used to make them all at school, in my desk drawer. After Mr. Stark started helping me out, I’ve gotten to use his own personal labs to design them. Much easier.”

”And he doesn’t help you out with them?”

”Sometimes, if he thinks what he offers could be helpful. For the most part, he’s all about experimentation and learning through mistakes and all that jazz.” Peter finished his knuckles and held his wrists out. “Can you help me get these off?”

She nodded. “How?”

”Just pull, twist, then push.” He nodded towards the straps. “Super easy.”

Natasha carefully undid the web shooters and set them to the side. “Cool toys. Okay, first thing you’ve gotta know is how to stand.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “I know how to stand, Ms. Romanoff.”

She blinked at him. 

A second later, he was on his back, all the air knocked out of him. 

_Okay, maybe I don’t know how to stand._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y’all deserve to know that none of these are beta’d or even edited fully bc in this household we die like soldiers
> 
> Thanks for reading, please comment and let me know what you liked, didn’t like, general thoughts, anything you want to. Hope you enjoyed!


	4. Leftovers

**4\. leftovers**

Ever since the spider bite, Peter ate a lot. 

Like, _a lot_ , a lot. 

Like, a worrying amount of a lot. 

For a while, he didn’t think the two were connected, then once he found out about his handy-dandy advanced healing, he figured he must have an advanced metabolism as well. 

Basically, he ate enough for three grown men. 

On the ‘Superheroes Who Eat A Lot’ scale, with Thor being on one end and Tony on the other, he was somewhere between Steve Rogers and Bruce Banner. 

Which was a lot. 

Thankfully, Mr. Stark was used to handling enhanced individuals, because when the team ate, they ate _hard_. 

Clean-out-a-whole-buffet hard. 

So when the time came to eat one Sunday evening, everybody was surprised when there was leftover soup. 

“Alright, who got sick?” Mr. Stark asked. “I’m not mad, I just wanna know so that I can quarantine you and isolate you from the team until you’re better. 

Wanda raised an eyebrow from her perch on the back of the couch. “Is that supposed to encourage us to confess?”

He shrugged. “I said I wouldn’t get mad.”

“Nobody’s sick, Tony,” said Steve, falling onto the couch with a bemused expression. “I just made a bit extra so Peter could take some home to Aunt May.”

Everyone who was following the conversation swiveled their heads to stare at Peter, who was trying to balance a stack of books on his head with Clint egging him on. He saw them all looking and froze, the books sliding down his back like a landslide. “What? Did I do something? Am I not not supposed to touch the books? It was Mr. Barton’s idea!”

”Snitch.” Clint grabbed a book and whacked Peter in the shoulder with it. Peter retaliated by grabbing a different book and whacking Clint with it. Natasha yanked both of the books out of their hands before it could escalate. 

“You wanna bring soup to Aunt May?” Asked Sam. “What, she can’t feed herself?”

Peter brightened and stood up, walking into the kitchen to stir the leftovers. “No, she can. Not very well, but she can. I mentioned how good Mr. Rogers is at cooking and she thought she’d like to try something he made and then he made her favorite soup tonight so I just asked him to make a bit extra to surprise her.” He began digging through the cabinets to find some Tupperware to transport the soup. 

“That’s sweet,” said Wanda fondly. “You take good care of her.”

”I’m only returning the favor.” Peter blushed but looked pleased at the praise—he was like a puppy when complimented. 

Clint leaned over and smacked Sam’s shoulder. “Why don’t you treat me nice like Peter does with his Aunt?”

Sam smacked him right back. “You aren’t my Aunt, Barton. And we live together, there isn’t much I can do to surprise you.”

”You could get him some chocolates,” suggested Bruce. “Clint loves chocolate.”

“Clean his arrows,” added Thor. “His arrows are always in need of cleaning.”

”His _ass_ is always in need of cleaning,” Sam replied, rolling his eyes and shoving Clint’s head off his lap. 

Steve cleared his throat. “Children are present,” he reminded. 

“I know what ass is, Mr. Rogers!”

”He knows what ass is,” Tony said. 

“Also, fuck.”

”Don’t say fuck!” Chorused the team. It had become something of an inside joke between them: someone would cuss, Steve would tell them not to, Peter would say ‘ _I know what_ x _cuss word is_ ’, someone would back him up, then Peter would add ‘ _Also, fuck_ ’, and everybody would chime in telling him not to say fuck. 

Peter bit back his smile and called from the kitchen, “Do we have any Tupperware, Mr. Stark?”

”Tupperware?” Tony twisted around to rest his arms on the back of the couch. “What are we, heathens? No, we don’t have any Tupperware. Christ, kid.”

He sighed dramatically and rolled his eyes. “Then how am I supposed to get the soup from here to home?”

”There might be some plastic wrap,” said Steve. “Check the drawers.”

After a few minutes of searching, Peter announced that there _wasn’t_ any plastic wrap. 

The team fell into silence thinking about how they might go about solving the problem. Surprisingly, it was Thor who broke the silence. “Why don’t you use your webbing, Starkson?”

”Stop calling him Starkson, he isn’t my kid,” protested Tony. They brushed over the suggestion with teasing of Peter and Tony’s relationship, but it was too late. The idea had already been planted. 

“Hey, Wanda, can you toss me my web shooters? They’re on the ceiling.” After he walked in on Steve and Clint attempting to fix the TV on the wall with his webs, Peter always made sure to keep them out of reach of the others. 

Wanda used her powers to carefully extract them and dump them on the counter in front of the boy. “You’re really going to use your webs?”

Peter looked up at the room of raised eyebrows and shrugged. “What? It’s a solid plan. Wouldn’t be the first time I used them outside of Spider-Manning.”

”What else could you have used them for?” Asked Sam. 

“Hands, wounds, furniture, presents, clothes, his body, other people’s body’s, school supplies, luggage, gags, hair-ties, windows, and blankets,” listed Nat. 

“What the hell, Parker?” Asked Clint. 

Peter chortled and pulled a strap on his web shooters tighter with his teeth. 

“Which formula is that?” Bruce asked, peering over the couch the get a better look. 

“Uh, 5.7, I think. It should work pretty well, as long as I don’t jostle it too much.” Peter carefully attached a web to the side of the bowl and stretched it out to the other side, using his free hand to pull on it so it covered a wider area. He did this a couple of times from different angles to make sure there wouldn’t be any leaks, then cut the web off and pulled off the shooters. “See? Easy-peasy.”

Tony asked, in disbelief, “How has nobody found out you’re Spider-Man yet, with all your shitty hiding jobs?”

”There are children present,” reminded Steve gently. 

“Mr. Rogers, I know what shit is.”

”He knows what shit is,” echoed Thor. 

“Also, fuck.”

” _Don’t say fuck!_ ”


	5. Tony

**5\. Tony**

Ever since the spider bite, Peter had inherited many things of the arachnid nature. 

He couldn’t thermoregulate, which meant that in winters he had to wear extra layers and in summers he basically lived in front of the AC unit.

He found himself chewing his food with only his two front teeth until it was practically liquid, because as he found out, spider’s stomachs were too narrow to take solids. Though the gut size didn’t translate to Peter, the instinctual grinding of food did.

He was also strangely attracted to plant matter like sap and pollen and shit—which may or may not have led to him eating some lilies Tony bought for Pepper.

Perhaps what was one of the most disturbing spider incidents was when he got stung in the leg by a bee during a picnic and tried to self-amputate it. His leg, that is, not the bee. After Bruce gently took the plastic butter knife out of his hands and took the cold soda he was trying to numb his leg with _off_ his leg, he and Tony did some research and found out that many breeds of spiders tried to preform autotomy after getting stung. So that was neat. 

Usually, Peter could suppress his spiderly instincts. It was actually pretty easy to. It was like not scratching an itch: pretty annoying, but easy enough to do. 

There were the odd moments when he wasn’t paying attention and did something totally weird and non-human. Like when he was really focused on his phone while walking down the hall, then out of nowhere his shirt was around his chin, he was on the ceiling, and Sam and Clint were losing their shit beneath him. 

And he never even noticed the wall. 

On the bright side, Tony had found a new punishment for when the team pissed him off: clearing Peter’s footprints off the walls and ceilings. 

However, there was always a downside.

Sleep-walking had been a habit of Peter’s even before the bite, but after it got strangely amplified. Instead of just walking around, bumping into walls and trying to make cereal like a zombie, he climbed up walls and built webs.

Yup. Sleepy Peter had a helluva lot harder time resisting the inner spider than Conscious Peter did. 

This was discovered for the first time by Tony about three months after the Vulture incident, long after he had started spending nights at the Tower and compound but just as he felt comfortable enough to dump his shit on the ground and call Tony an old man. Basically, as soon as he felt safe enough to sleep-walk, he did. 

Tony found out about this unfortunate habit when he walked into the kitchen and saw Peter hanging upside down on a web that spanned half the ceiling, as if he was waiting for him to arrive. 

His scream had woken up half the compound. 

After Peter was woken up by Tony literally hitting him with a broomstick, they all saw that along with creating an intricate and detailed web, he had also _caught_ some things. Mainly chairs. And the table. And the fridge. 

At least they knew how strong his webbing was under long term circumstances. 

It took nearly an hour to get everything back in place; an hour that was filled with a blushing, stammering Peter and an endlessly amused Tony. 

Nevertheless, Tony got used to seeing Peter wander, crawl, and scuttle his way about the ceilings of the Tower with half-lidded eyes, mumbling nonsense, and some sort of dorky pajamas on. 

Just part of the job, right?

And after the Rogue Avengers moved back in, they eventually got used to it, too. They found it equal parts hilarious and terrifying, but they got used to it. Enough so that they took turns luring him down from the webs and then spraying them with the special web dissolve Bruce had whipped up one rainy day. 

All-in-all, weird as it was, Peter’s spider soul just became another weird gift in the compound of weird gifts. 

* * *

 Friday night. Avenger’s common room. Thor and Steve were arguing over which movie to watch while the others watched on in amusement. 

Thor wanted some dorky rom-com, Steve wanted a mystery film. Nobody had the heart to tell them that Sam had already put a comedy in and was waiting for them to shut up before pressing play. 

Natasha leaned over to where Tony was slouched into the couch and quietly asked, “Hey, where’s Peter? He never misses out on an opportunity to watch a movie with us.”

Tony pulled his eyes away from the bickering blonds and answered, “He’s exhausted from school. It’s finals week, or something, so he wanted to go to bed early. Oh, he wanted me to tell you something—but I can’t remember. It was something in Russian. He might still be awake, go ahead and see if you can get it out of him.” He tuned back into the conversation, where Thor was making some very good points about the effect the rom-com would have on team moral. 

She huffed and pushed herself off the couch. Carefully stepping over Wanda and Clint, Natasha silently left the room to track down Peter. 

The layout of the compound had long since imprinted itself into her mind. She could navigate the upper floors blindfolded and deafened. (The lower floors she might have to use echolocation for.)

Peter’s room was closest to Tony’s. It was one of the most secure rooms in the entire compound, which made it one of the safest rooms in the country. 

Natasha knocked on the door, but didn’t wait for an answer before yanking it open. 

Bad. Idea. 

A dark form wearing loose clothing scuttled out on the ceiling, trails of silvery webs streaming after him like a ghostly afterthought. Looking inside the room, she saw that most of it was covered in webs. 

“Shit!” She turned around just in time to see Peter turn a corner and disappear. “FRIDAY, tell Tony he’s got incoming.”

 _Stupid_ rebenok pauk _, gets to climb on walls when I don’t_. The spy jogged down the corridor, following the trail back to the common room. 

The argument had halted as soon as FRIDAY peacefully announced, “ _Boss, Romanoff wants me to tell you that you’ve got incoming._ ”

So silent you could drop a pin. “Good incoming or bad incoming?”

” _Unconscious Peter incoming_.”

The room let out a collective sigh of relief and shook the warning off like damp snow. “Who’s turn is it to get him to bed?” Asked Steve. 

”Just little Petey-Wetey returning to his dad,” teased Clint. 

“All because you didn’t sing him his lullaby,” sighed Sam. “What a shame.”

Tony rolled his eyes and stood up. He knew his teammates were joking, but that didn’t stop his overprotectiveness from flaring up. “All of you can shut it, I’ll handle Peter.”

Just as he said that, the boy himself crawled into the room on the ceiling. He immediately ran towards the highest part—which was pretty damn high. 

 _Shit. I might have to get my suit for this_. Tony put his hands on his hips and watched with detached fascination as Peter began the regular process of creating a web. It was a delicate, but quick process. Long practiced and nearly mastered. 

“Get your kid, Stark!” Steve didn’t even look up from the DVD player, where he was struggling to eject the current comedy Sam had in. 

What followed was a barrage of demands for Tony to get Peter back into bed from the team. Natasha finally showed up and threw her hands into the air. “Guys, you’re agitating him, look!”

All the noise had indeed made Peter nervous. When Tony looked back up at him, he saw the boy practically crawling in circles, the original web abandoned to make way for a gradually forming hammock. 

He turned back to the team and held up his hands in a placating motion. “Would you all just chill out? It’s bad luck to wake up sleepwalkers.”

Sam sucked in a sharp breath, eyes fixed on the ceiling. Clint hit him in the gut and told him to stop being so obvious. 

“Yes, thank you, Clint.” Tony gestures to the archer. “You’ve all seen him sleepwalk before, this time is no different.”

”Tony . . .” Wanda winced and shook her head. 

“There’s no need for y’all to start acting like this is some brand new thing.”

”Oh, Tony.” Natasha crossed her arms. A fond smile graced her lips. 

Tony turned towards the doorway. “Just give me five seconds and—“ 

Before he could finish, the man felt a soft impact on his back, like someone had thrown a pillow at him, then he was being _pulled_ into the air by the back of his _shirt_. An undignified scream set the rest of the team scrambling to arrange themselves beneath him in case he fell.

No need to worry, because soon he felt soft hands pulling at his shoulders, lifting and then dropping him into . . . the hammock. The hammock that Peter had been making. The hammock made specially for Tony. Tony’s hammock. 

“Kid, what the hell?” Tony weakly batted away his hands and clutched his head. “I’m never going to live this down.”

Below him, he heard equal parts laughter and worrying. Bruce was flat-out analyzing the way Tony had been caught. “Just like a Bolas spider,” he mused. “Did he get that from previous knowledge of how spiders caught prey, or is it from the spider that bit him?”

”Could somebody maybe help me put up here?” Tony leaned to the side as far as he dared and _wow_ he was really high up. Since when had his ceilings been this high. 

The only answer he got was a round of jeering and more laughter. Sam was laughing so hard that he had gone silent, tears streaming down his face. 

He sighed and turned back to Peter, who was directly above him, face angled towards the floor. “Hey, kiddo. What’s up?”

Sometimes, even when unconscious, Peter could carry on a conversation. Short ones, yes, but a conversation nonetheless.  

Peter lowered himself by a thin strand of webbing. To be frank, the web shooters didn’t match his pajamas at all, but who was he to complain? “Gotta . . . gotta keep you safe,” he mumbled. His eyes flickered to and fro beneath his eyelids. 

“Goddammit. He’s sweet even when he’s not conscious.” Tony sighed and ran a hand through Peter’s hair. Since he was upside down, it was all hanging down like a very short curtain, making it twice as accessible to Tony. “Why do you have to keep me safe?”

”Loud. Loud . . . bad.”

He huffed a laugh. All the ruckus from the team had made Peter scared alright—but for Tony, rather than his own self. 

Isn’t that just right on par?

Tony leaned over again and threw down, “You guys made him think I was in danger, you dumbasses!”

Clint made eye contact, then broke into a new round of laughter. “Are we completely sure you aren’t?”

Brows furrowed, Tony didn’t get the chance to question it before he was being flipped onto his back and the edges of the hammock were being pulled over him like he was a burrito. 

Like he was a fly caught in a spider web. 

“Parker, I swear to god, if you eat me I’m writing you out of my will.”

”He’s in your _will?_ ” Sam’s guffaws grated on Tony’s nerves. 

Peter began crawling around the cocoon, which was thankfully still horizontal to the ground, because otherwise Tony would be unconscious any second now. It seemed that the boy was checking the webbing for any weak spots—which of _course_ there wasn’t any, because Tony Stark had helped make that web fluid _himself_. “Safe, safe, safe,” mumbled the boy under his breath. 

“Tony, do we need to hit Peter with a newspaper?” Nat called from below. If Tony wiggled enough, he could see her leaning against the back of the couch, arms crossed, smirking. 

“I’ve got this, thanks!” He called back, forcing the most _I-am-in-complete-control-of-this-situation_ grin he had. 

“Tony, seriously, should we get Pepper?” Steve asked. His voice sounded serious, but when Tony managed to get a look at him, he had the same shit-eating grin as the rest of them. 

“You should get lives, is what you should get.” 

_Nice and smooth, Stark. Like chunky peanut butter._

Wanda’s voice came up to taunt him next. “How can you be lying down, yet still talk as if all the blood is rushing to your head?”

Peter crawled faster, twinging the strands of his webbing like a real spider would. After a burst of laughter bounced off the walls, he froze, then hid in a shadowed corner of the ceiling. Tony could just barely make out his oddly-bent body like a demon in a horror movie. “Great, look, now you scared him.”

From below, he head Clint tease Nat; “Maybe it’s time to call in Mama Spider to lure him out.”

A second later there was a dull thud, then Clint whining in pain. 

Aw. At something could still make Tony smile. 

Bruce addressed Tony. “Should we do something? Is there, like, a protocol for this?”

Tony sighed and let his head fall back. Actually, it was kind of comfortable. The webbing was really warm. And since it looked like Peter would be hiding for a good while . . . “Hey, Wilson, think you can get Redwing to bring up any snacks?”

Pepper and Rhodey walked in the compound common room the next morning to find Tony still dangling from the ceiling with an empty Pringles can tucked into a little fold of the cocoon, Peter curled up snugly on his chest. 

The following pictures were the face of the SHIELD Christmas card for the following year. 

(Nat may or may not have been the one to send out wallet sized versions to everyone in Tony’s contacts—there was no evidence tracing her to the crime.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I bet you thought I’d be updating a day late—WELL IM NOT!! IVE JUST BEEN PROCRASTINATING ALL DAY, SO SUCK ON THAT!!!!!!!!!
> 
> Happy Christmas Eve to all yee who celebrate. 
> 
> Last chapter is tomorrow!


	6. + 1

**\+ 1**

Peter had gone to May, who was busy, to the mall, which was expensive, to Bruce, who was clueless, to even Natasha, who wasn’t even in the country. 

And still, nothing. 

 _Nobody_ could teach Peter how to wrap a present. 

What the fuck. 

To be entirely honest, he didn’t even trust the rest of the Avengers to not snitch—maybe Steve Rogers, but he was busy wrapping his own presents all the time and told everyone not to bother him. 

He had even tried YouTube! All the videos were confusing and complicated. He just wanted to learn how to wrap a normal, decent sized present for his mentor-father figure-childhood hero! 

Was that so much to ask?

Peter cursed and ripped the shoddy wrapping paper off the box, crumpling it up and tossing it to the side. 

It was ridiculous. He had spent hours—days— _weeks_ searching for the perfect Christmas present for Mr. Stark, and he wouldn’t even be able to give it to him. 

Not without it having the perfect wrapping job. 

It was ironic, really, because if it was a gift for any other person, he would have gone to Mr. Stark by now. And the best part was that he would have helped him! He way a way of explaining things with the perfect mix of talking and correcting that always made it click for Peter. 

“That’s it,” he said aloud, falling back upon the cushion of his failures. “I can’t go.”

”Can’t go where?” Ned’s stuffy voice came from Peter’s phone on the nightstand. 

“To the compound to celebrate Christmas with the team!” He looked scorned at the phone, as if it had personally wronged him. 

“Oh.” A brief pause. “Why not?”

Peter groaned and rubbed his hands down his face. “Have you been listening to anything I’ve been saying?”

”Not really, no.”

”I can’t go to the party because I can’t wrap Mr. Stark’s present! And it _doubly_ sucks because they were going to postpone celebrating a whole day just so that I could be there without ditching Aunt May.” He rolled over and pressed his face into his bedroom carpet. 

“Why don’t you just ask May to help? I’m sure she knows how?”

”She’s too busy to sit down and show me. I don’t wanna bother her anyways.”

Ned sighed heavily. “I’d help you, but I’m too sick to move. Also, I don’t know how. And I don’t want to.”

”Thanks, buddy. Merry Christmas to you, too.” Peter whined and grabbed the phone. He turned it off speaker and pressed it tightly to his ear, speaking in a hushed whisper, “What am I supposed to do?”

”Hey, why don’t you just use your webs? You use them to wrap shit all the time.”

”I _can’t_ use my webs, Ned,” he protested. “I use them _all the time_. I want this to be . . . I dunno. Special? I just—I need something outside of Spider-Man, ya know? To show him that’s not what our entire relationship is about!”

When Ned replied, in was on the wave of a low groan. “Oh my god, you’re so lame.”

“You’re meaner than usual. Have you been hanging out with MJ again?” Peter watched the fan on his ceiling swing in slow circles _around_ and _around_ and _around_. 

“Yeah. Also, she wants me to tell you that if you miss one more decathalon practice, she’s going to shove the trophy we won last year up your ass. So probably don’t miss any more practice.”

Peter was barely listening. He was too busy thinking of anyone who might be able to help him wrap Mr. Stark’s present. He was brought back into the conversation by Ned’s insistent voice. 

“Peter? _Peter!_ ”

“What.”

”I asked what you got him.”

The boy sighed and looked over at the box holding the man’s present. “Uh, sort of hard to explain.”

”I literally can’t get out of bed without throwing up. I’ve got time.”

Peter considered this, then stood up and crawled into his own bed. He kept one eye on the door and lowered his voice a bit. “Okay, but you can’t tell anyone, alright?”

”Who am I gonna tell? And stop talking like that, I know that you’re home alone.” Ned sounded very done with Peter’s dramatics, unfortunately. 

“Ned, you’re supposed to be my best friend.” Peter scowled and pulled the blanket over his head. 

“Right now I’m your very sick best friend. Get to the good part, what’d you get Mr. Stark?”

”Uh, basically, he once told me that listening to someone’s heartbeat helps him go to sleep, right? And, like, he doesn’t have nightmares or anything. But he can really only listen to Ms. Pott’s heartbeat, and she’s gone a lot. So I took some wireless earbuds and sort of, like, fiddled with them for a bit. And, like, me, Colonel Rhodes and Ms. Pott’s all have these watches that track out vitals and heartbeats and stuff, so I sort of just adjusted the earbuds to connect to our watches instead of his phone or whatever. And he can, like, choose which person he wants to listen to, if he has a preference. Or he can listen to all three of ours at once, or any combination thereof. I basically installed a simpler, mini FRIDAY into the earbuds. To help him sleep.”

There was a long pause after Peter stopped talking. He grew nervous. 

“What?” He asked. “Is it stupid? Oh, god, it’s really stupid and nerdy, isn’t it?” 

“No, not at all,” said Ned hurriedly. “Actually, that . . . that’s kind of ingenious. I just—well, aren’t you giving gifts in front of everyone? Don’t you think that’s a little personal for everyone to see?”

Peter bolted upright, already nodding as if his friend could see him. “Yeah! Yeah, of course, but see, I actually wrote a letter to go with the gift which explains it all, so to everyone else it just looks like a normal pair of wireless earbuds. And I’m pretty sure it’s like, the perfect gift, but I can’t find anybody to wrap it!”

Another long, long pause. 

“Have you considered using a gift bag?”

”. . . Holy _shit!_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> merry christmas :)
> 
> Subscribe to my account if you want updates whenever I post something, thank you to all who have commented throughout, it means so much to me! 
> 
> I have another BIG project in the works, so stay tuned for that. 
> 
> Hope you all enjoyed!!


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